Never on Your Side
by ArmyManintheAshtray
Summary: Supernatural is coming to an end. For the first time we've gone beyond canon or canon possible storylines to create our version of a series finale. This story is set several months after the Season 14 finale.
1. Checking In

Never on Your Side

_ It started in a small cemetery in Kansas, but it did not end there. It spread slowly at first then rapidly increased pace. Like a cancer, it mutated suddenly and randomly to new locations – Europe, Asia, Australia. The dead began rising. And anywhere that humans had ever lived and died was a potential target, with no indication of where it would surface next._

_Decades of horror movies and TV shows about zombie apocalypses and the like had done nothing to prepare most people for such a reality, primarily because the reality was nothing like the fictional portrayals. There was no infection, no contagion to pass on or to avoid. The risen dead were not craving flesh. They merely existed, and they spread, and when they encountered life they swarmed over it in a frenzy until it was snuffed out. And those that they engulfed simply joined the terrifying ensemble._

_They could not be destroyed. They could be slowed down, they could be fought back for a time, but they could not be stopped. Head shots, burning, decapitation – none of those worked on the resurrected. Large-scale bombing just made the terrain a little more difficult to cross – the dead were unaffected. The Chinese government had been the first to determine that even a nuclear bomb only halted the advance for a few weeks. And what crept out of the gaping crater that had been left behind was too appalling even for a new world where rotting corpses roamed abandoned cityscapes._

_Humanity pulled together wherever it could, hanging on to civilization, gathering outside of the dead zones, hoping to be spared from the ever-growing horde. But there was no place that was really safe anymore. A neighborhood, a town, a city could become a dead zone without warning. The cancer just appeared, and where once the deceased had rested peacefully in graves, the dead were suddenly walking the streets, aggressively seeking new recruits._

_And that wasn't even the only threat. The façade of a sane world that most humans had innocently believed in came crashing down without warning. Everything that had previously only existed in nightmares and horror movies was suddenly a reality, roaming the earth in broad daylight. Ghosts and vampires and werewolves, demons and creatures that most people didn't even have a name for, every kind of monstrous thing that had ever plagued the world surged in number and wandered freely. A supernatural explosion, as though some force that had held them in check had been destroyed. They preyed relentlessly on the remaining humans, their audacity growing with their numbers. The grand finale was coming, might as well join the party!_

_The hunters of the world did what they could. The bloody end they had always anticipated had arrived; and, just as it was with their eternal adversary, there was no longer any need for them to keep secrecy. So they fought, and they passed their knowledge of the supernatural on to as many others as they could, offering a small ray of hope in an increasingly dark situation. Tattoo artists everywhere were overwhelmed by the onslaught of people wanting to be marked with anti-possession symbols. Bodies of those who died natural deaths, or fell prey to monsters, were burned immediately to stave off ghosts. That is, unless someone nearby knew about dead man's blood, then a small fortune could be made on the thriving black market by draining the body first. Salt and silver, devil's traps and exorcisms – people adapted to the new reality, or they died quickly. A surprisingly large number adapted, huddled together where they could, and carried on with a semblance of life._

_But the fact remained. The dead were coming, and no one could stop them._

Chapter 1 Checking In

Dean moved forward in the line, holding his tray out to receive a ladle of beans, a slice of bread. The elderly woman at the end of the line smiled at him as she set a carton of milk on the tray.

"Thanks," Dean said.

"No," the lady responded sincerely, "Thank you, and your brother." Dean just nodded, moving away quickly. The gratitude, as though he and Sam were actually making some significant difference, made him feel ill. He moved between the rows of tables, carefully avoiding eye contact. Grief, anger, despair, hope – he didn't feel strong enough to handle any of the emotions that he might see behind the rows of watching eyes. He crossed the length of the cafeteria, joining Sam at a table in the far corner. The room was filled to overflowing, but the brothers were afforded a wide berth – somewhat out of respect, mostly out of fear. Most of the people in the cafeteria were just civilians with a day's worth of training. The hunters, while welcome, were an unknown.

Converse County High School, in Glenrock, Wyoming, had been transformed into a refugee settlement only two weeks ago. It was already vastly overcrowded, housing nearly five hundred people in a building that had been intended to educate just a little over that number of students. Most of those seeking shelter were from the surrounding area, leaving their remote ranches and farms to avoid marauding monsters. Others were coming in from the east or the north, fleeing areas now abandoned to the dead. Some would eventually move further west to Salt Lake City, others intended to head towards the coast. Many simply had no idea what their next step would be.

As far as settlements went, the Winchesters had to admit that this was one of the better ones they had seen. It seemed that the smaller, more rural ones usually were. People organized themselves, found ways to stay occupied, policed themselves. Classes were still being held at Converse County High School, grades K-12. Guard duties, kitchen duties, activity coordinators, all were assigned on a bulletin board outside the main office and dutifully checked each morning. Cots and partitions were packed away neatly each day to allow room for activities and brought out each night to cover the gym floor in rows and line the hallways. They were hanging on tight here in Glenrock, and neither Sam nor Dean told them anything about the settlements they had seen where the refugees themselves had become more dangerous than the monsters.

They had spent the day training for the coming battle. By agreement of the community, anyone in high school or older could join the training group. Sam and Dean had worked with the handful of military, ex-military, and law enforcement personnel early on, preparing them to break the group into smaller patrols that they could work with. A great deal of what was taught was defensive – hide, do not engage, the creatures are vastly stronger than you can imagine. The latter part of the day had been devoted to offensive maneuvers – methods of attack, plans to lure the creatures into traps. Thankfully, many of the refugees had come to the settlement bearing their own weaponry of guns, knives, axes, scythes, and a variety of farm equipment. In that regard, they were miles ahead of the suburban settlement Sam and Dean had worked a demon infestation with a few days ago.

"You think they're ready?" Sam asked as Dean sat down at the table across from him and began immediately shoveling food into his mouth. Dean chewed for a while and then shrugged.

"As ready as they're going to be," he said. "I'm not sure any of them have even seen a vampire yet, let alone watched one chow down on their buddy. Who knows how they'll take it…" he trailed off, taking another bite of food.

"He estimated about 75 in the nest."

"Yeah, well, by the time it gets here it could have gotten even bigger," Dean replied, chewing steadily. "Chances are it's going to be a bloodbath."

Sam glanced at Dean surreptitiously, searching his brother's face for some emotion, some indication that his last statement had been any more upsetting than a report of possible rain showers. There was none. Dean merely glanced at the people filling the cafeteria and then continued with his meal.

It surprised Sam how much it still hurt to see his brother this way. It had always been Dean's instinct to shut down his emotions in times of turmoil. But he had grown a lot in recent years. Dean had learned to temper his instinctive pushing away, his refusal of help, his refusal of emotions. Maybe that was what made his behavior now so painful to watch. Sam feared that this time it wasn't merely a defensive mechanism. Maybe this time Dean's words and actions looked like someone who was dead inside because his brother really had died.

"Come on, it's 7:30 Mountain," Dean said, finishing his last bite. "Time to get the gear up to the roof."

Their lives had been completely upended in the months since their encounter with Chuck in that small Kansas cemetery. They had been forced to abandon the bunker early on. For weeks they had lived on the road, back in the motels of their youth, but eventually that had changed as communities evaporated and stretches of highway became wastelands. Now Sam and Dean slept in the Impala, or in refugee settlements among strangers. Only two things were constant now. One, as always, they were together. And two, at 9:00 each night they had their radio set up on the nearest high spot, and the next hour was devoted to the hunter channel.

Dean had insisted on bringing the apparatus along when they fled the bunker – dad's old ham radio. It had been a popular method of hunter communication before the prevalence of cell phones, and as cell service became more and more unreliable, and communication among hunters more critical than ever, Dean decided it needed to make a comeback. Over the course of a few weeks, the Winchesters and the other hunters they had managed to make contact with had developed a system that was now set in stone:

· Hunter roll call happens every night at 9:00 Central Standard Time.

· When a new hunter joins, their name is added to the bottom of the list.

· Remember where you are on the list!

· Be prepared when your turn comes!

· Give your name, location, and a brief report. Then shut up and listen.

· If a hunter misses roll call three times in a row, a few words of remembrance will be spoken, and their name will be struck from the list.

In all the months of using the system, they had never again heard from a hunter that had been assumed dead. The communication lifeline was too important, and hunters would go to any lengths to not miss that call. Death was literally the only thing that would cause someone to miss three times in a row.

They set up their equipment on the roof of the high school: radio, transceiver, amplifier, antenna. It helped to get to the highest spot possible, but in this part of Wyoming the top of a building was the best they could do. Sam opened a satchel and spread a map out on the small worktable along with a thick notebook. He kept all the notes, while Dean kept the roster and noted changes on the map.

At precisely 8:00 pm Mountain time, 9:00 Central Standard, Dean began.

"Hunter radio. This is Dean and Sam Winchester. We're in Glenrock, Wyoming, coordinates 42.8 – 105.8, at a refugee camp in Converse County High School. Approximately 500 people. Expecting about 75 vamps here. Estimated arrival around midnight. Fifteen military/paramilitary personnel training roughly 100 available fighters. No sign of the dead in our vicinity. Over."

And the next hunter carried on. The reports were precise and clipped, and Sam copied everything down in his own version of shorthand, Dean cross-referencing against the map to note movements of the hunters or monsters, or the spread of areas controlled by the dead. They had been listening to reports for about twenty minutes when Sam glanced over at the roster. They were almost to the names: Donna Hanscum, Jody Mills, Alex Jones, Claire Novak. All four of them had failed to report last night. Sam tried not to think ahead, but he could feel the tension radiating from his brother. Three more hunters reported in, and then…

"This is Donna Hanscum…" Dean looked to Sam, something very near a smile on both of their faces. "…and Alex Jones…we're in Bowman, North Dakota."

Their almost smiles faded away. They could hear it in her voice. Donna was a hunter and a sheriff, but she was close to breaking.

"We came here to take on some ghouls. The dead just came out of nowhere. Jody Mills and Claire Novak didn't…didn't make it…" the catch in Donna's voice was heartbreaking. "We're moving west tomorrow. We'll report on what we see about how widespread the dead are. Over."

The next hunter on the roster did not speak. The radio was silent for several seconds, a little longer than was usual perhaps, and then Dean spoke the customary words.

"Jody and Claire, thanks for your work. Struck from the roster." He sensed the movement that Sam made beside him; almost like a flinch, as though the hard, emotionless words had physically hit him; but Dean didn't look at his brother again.

The reports continued for another half-hour. When the last hunter on the list had finished, Dean concluded the broadcast with his usual statement.

"Stay safe out there. Everyone be back here tomorrow." He turned off the apparatus and began to break down the equipment to place away in the storage boxes.

"Dean…" He turned towards Sam's voice. His brother's eyes were wet, his face profoundly sad, and he was looking at Dean as though he was waiting for something. But Dean had nothing to give. "It was Jody…Jody and Claire…"

"And tomorrow it'll probably be Donna and Alex. And eventually it'll be every damn hunter on that list. And I just hope I'm lucky enough not to be here for that…for the whole goddamn end."

"Dean…"

"Stop it, Sam! Just stop it! Son of a bitch!" Dean stood up suddenly, kicking the chair that he had been sitting in so that fell over and bounced away, banging and clattering, reverberating across the asphalt rooftop. This time Sam really did flinch. "Stop looking at me like that. We're not going to talk about old times and how much they meant to us and blah, blah, blah, blah…because it doesn't matter! Nothing matters! I'm only doing this, WE'RE only doing this, because we are too damn stupid to stop."

"You don't mean that…"

"The hell I don't! Were you even listening? Were you even listening to Chuck in that graveyard? He said it himself – this is the end!"

"I know what Chuck said," Sam replied, his voice low, trying to calm his brother. He had tried to have this conversation so many times before, but Dean would never listen. "But he's also given us time, Dean. Maybe we have some chance to…"

"To what? To what, Sam? We cannot stop it this time!"

"We don't know that. There might still be something that…"

"Stop it!" Dean was practically roaring, his hands roughing through his hair in frustration. "There is no fixing this! There is no fairy-tale ending! We've been played our whole lives, Sam!"

For just a moment, Dean felt a pang of regret at the stricken look on Sam's face. But it was like the memory of an emotion, the memory of a time when he had allowed himself to feel.

"You have to let this go," Dean continued. He was no longer hollering, his voice flat and dead now. "I know you want to believe that something will get better, but it won't. It just won't. Chuck is going to end everything, and he is going to end it bloody."

Dean finished packing away the radio equipment.

"You coming?" he asked as he headed for the door, but Sam was silent and unmoving. Dean walked away. He turned back as his hand touched the doorknob. "It's always been a game, Sam, and we've always played because there was nothing else to do. Hell, we're still playing. But let's not kid ourselves anymore. At least let's face the truth. God was never on our side."


	2. Nest and Wings

Chapter 2 Nest and Wings

The cellar was the most fortified enclosure, but it was tiny and stark and only intended to hold the boiler and water heater and various other pieces of equipment for the school. They had practiced though, and the room could fit nearly a hundred of the youngest children and the most elderly. Those remaining who were unable to fight – the young, the injured, the disabled – would seek shelter where they could in closets and storerooms. Hiding drills had been the first thing on the training agenda, and now it was time to put them into action. Kevin White – a man who seemed as surprised as anyone to find himself in charge of a refugee camp – intercepted Dean just as he exited from the rooftop.

"That friend of yours is back," Kevin reported. "He's in the kitchen. He says there are about 120 in the nest now, probably only a couple hours out."

"Well, we expected the number would grow," Dean responded. He had found that people were sometimes less panicked when you told them that they had expected whatever happened – even if they had expected nothing of the sort. When you plunged over a cliff, it was comforting to believe that you were at least not surprised about plummeting to your death. Kevin seemed to take no comfort in the fulfilled expectations, though.

He was silent as he digested the new information. Dean was silent too, covertly studying Kevin's face. Frankly, Dean was not encouraged by what he saw there. The man was sweating, his pallor gray, his jaw working as though he were clenching and unclenching his teeth. It was not the face of a man prepared to lead into battle. In fact, the man looked very close to breaking.

Dean quickly cut his eyes to their surroundings. Where would be the best place to stash Kevin if he started to lose it? Panic could spread like wildfire, and the only thing worse than trying to defend hundreds of civilians was trying to defend hundreds of freaked out civilians. It was crucial that everyone be kept as calm as possible for as long as possible. If that meant switching leaders at the last minute, then it wouldn't be the first time that the Winchesters had engineered a regime change.

The door behind Dean opened, and Kevin's head snapped up. It was Sam exiting the rooftop.

"What's happened?" Sam asked, looking between the two men.

"There's more," Kevin answered, "There's 120 of them now. That's a lot more. And they're almost here." His voice was low, but the brittleness was evident. Dean shifted his stance casually, appearing as relaxed as before, but his hand now rested on the handle of the pistol in the back of his waistband.

Sam took a deep breath, his voice strong and as soothing as possible when he spoke.

"It's okay. We can still do this. We can help these..."

"No, we can't," Kevin hissed. "We can't help anyone. We should tell everyone to run." He looked around wildly as though searching out an escape route, and Dean started to draw his gun. Sam lay his hand on his brother's shoulder, stopping him.

"Kevin, you know there's nowhere to run." Sam spoke just above a whisper, forcing the man to look at him, listen to him. "We're safer here together, and you know that. They need you. All these people need you. Remember the plan, okay?"

It was a long moment before the panic subsided, but eventually Kevin gained control of himself. He took several gulping breaths and forced his limbs to relax.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to act like that. I just…"

"Forget it, man," Dean said. "You've got work to do. Find your patrol leaders, and let's start getting people in place, okay?" Kevin gave a short nod and moved off quickly.

"Thanks. I was getting ready to knock him out and stash him," Dean said, but Sam made no reply as he followed his brother. People were already starting to gather in the cafeteria, the chatter low and anxious, but Sam and Dean passed them all silently and pushed through the double doors into the kitchen. The first thing they saw was Cas slumped wearily in a chair. And with him was Rowena, picking desultorily at a plate of food.

"Cas, you look like hammered hell," Dean said, glaring at the angel. He turned towards Rowena. "And why are you here?"

"Charming as always, Dean," Rowena spoke in her drawling, Scottish accent. "And how are you, darling Samuel?" Sam nodded to her, then looked to Cas with concern.

"Are you okay, Cas?" Sam asked. The angel was nearly unrecognizable. For over a decade, Sam and Dean had seen Castiel beaten, bloodied, stabbed, and tortured. They had even seen him lose his angelic grace and become nearly human. But they had never seen him like this.

For weeks following the events in that cemetery in Kansas, Cas had stormed and raged – grief-stricken and infuriated, determined to find Chuck and force him to return Jack and fix the disaster he had created. But Chuck was nowhere to be found. And Heaven was fallen or overtaken, Cas didn't really know which. Returning after having been missing for over four months, all he could tell Sam and Dean was that he had been unable to enter Heaven, and he was unable to communicate with any other angels. He doubted if any were still alive.

After that, Cas did what he could to help, running reconnaissance and fighting alongside the Winchesters, as he had done for so many years. The problem was, whatever had happened to destroy death, to destroy the barrier that had kept the supernatural at bay, seemed to be destroying Cas as well. By nature, he still didn't sleep or eat. But now the angel's earthly vessel, which had always remained strong and steadfast in the past, looked like a regular human who hadn't slept, or eaten, or bathed. And he was no longer able to heal himself as he had before. In fact, he no longer seemed to heal at all, immediately or over time. His clothing was filthy and torn. His knuckles were bloodied. His face was battered. His eyes were sunken and ringed by what looked like deep-purple bruises of exhaustion. It was as if Castiel's vessel was the physical embodiment of the pain they were all enduring.

"I'm fine. Thank you, Sam," Cas responded the same way he always did to Sam's question. "And it's good to see you too, Dean," he continued with no antagonism, just a gentle reprimand to Dean's bluntness.

"I'm not kidding, Cas," Dean responded angrily, "You look like you got the wrong end of an MMA double-team. You have to rest, you have to recover your strength if you're going to…"

"There's no strength to recover, Dean." This time, Cas' voice was harsher, and there was a spark in his eye of the fierce warrior that had once caused humans and demons to cower. "There is no strength. There will never be any more strength. I'm doing the best I can to…"

"What the hell good is the 'best you can' when you're driving yourself into the ground? I told you not to come back here. I told you to get us a number and then get as far the hell away as you could. But did you listen? No, you decide to play angel-Uber and show up right where the trouble is. You can't fight like that!" Dean waved his arm to indicate the entirety of Cas' being. "You're useless here! What are we supposed to do when you…?"

Sam stepped between the two of them, his arm held out to Dean, as Rowena looked at them askance.

"A fine lot I've thrown in with, haven't I then?" she said.

"Again, why are you here?" Dean turned on her, brushing Sam's arm away and advancing on Rowena. The witch merely blinked at him complacently.

"I'm here, Dean, because I have a wee proposition for you boys."

"What kind of proposition?" Dean, Sam, and Cas all asked at the same time and with the same tone of utmost suspicion. Rowena gave her best impression of wrongfully accused innocence – her green eyes opening wide in surprise, a tiny gasp of indignation ending in a pout – but Sam saw the cloud that passed over her face.

"I do think that by this time I deserve at least a small morsel of trust from you all. I have been…"

"Save it," Dean cut her off brusquely. "We've got just a little over an hour before this place is crawling with vamps. You," he pointed at Cas, "find a place to hide and stay there. And you," he pointed at Rowena, "make sure he does. We'll deal with both of you later…if we even make it through this…" he muttered as he pushed back through the double doors of the kitchen.

"There's a little closet just behind you, Cas, with the water heater and cleaning stuff. It would be big enough for you and Rowena," Sam said before he turned to follow his brother. Then he stopped and turned back to them. "Rowena, this proposition of yours…it's bad, isn't it?"

Rowena returned his gaze with no pretense. Her distress was obvious.

"Yes, Samuel, it's bad," she replied. "But I don't believe we can avoid it." 

The plan was rudimentary – a dozen fighters on the roof comprising anyone who possessed archery equipment, the strongest patrols positioned along the front and at the football and baseball fields which lay on opposite sides of the building, and a remaining patrol spaced throughout the school. The hope was to keep the vampires from ever making it into the school building by defending the front and flanking in from the athletic fields.

"The best laid plans of mice and men…" Sam's quiet voice broke the silence as he stood just outside the front door of the school with Dean.

"…often go awry," Dean finished the quote, and Sam cut him a sideways look which said he was impressed.

"Give me a break," Dean said, "I did go to school."

"I didn't say anything…"

"Shut up."

As usual, Dean was in a better mood now that the fight was almost upon them.

They heard the approaching nest of vamps long before they saw them – rumbling engines accompanied by screaming metal music. When it finally came into view, the motley collection of choppers, cars, and trucks, was strewn across all lanes of Highway 95.

One of the patrol leaders standing near the Winchesters pressed a pair of binoculars to her eyes, scanning the approaching horde. She lowered the binoculars with a look on her face as though she had been punched in the gut, shocked and sickened. Dean reached out, and the woman wordlessly passed over the binoculars. Dean raised them to his eyes. It was obvious what had caused the woman's reaction.

An 18-wheeler was leading the vampire procession, and it pulled a trailer behind it that would have once been used for hauling cars. The trailer was empty, but it was festooned with skulls and bones and bloody corpses, strapped haphazardly to railings and crossbeams. Many of the other vehicles were similarly adorned.

"Good god, somebody thinks they're freakin' Mad Max," Dean said, passing the binoculars to Sam. Sam looked but made no comment, just silently returned the binoculars to their owner. He, and Dean, could sense the adrenaline surge as other patrols began to make out what was attached to the approaching convoy. Dean pulled the walkie-talkie from the clip on his waistband and spoke into it with a fierce hatred.

"Let's make these bastards pay."

The vampires charged en masse, and it felt like the first bit of luck they had had. The fear had been that they might immediately spread out and try to surround the school. Instead, they came straight toward the front where they saw nothing but a line of helpless humans. As planned, the archers lay hidden until the last possible second when Dean screamed "Now!"

"Make damn sure these count," Sam had instructed earlier as each archer was given a handful of arrows dipped in dead man's blood. "This stuff is worth more than gold or gasoline." And it was. The places where dead man's blood had once been accessible – funeral homes, hospital morgues, police morgues – now lay empty as dead bodies were burned immediately. When it could be found, it was horded by those in the know. At Converse County High School, they had been able to dip forty arrows and half-fill an equal number of syringes. "Don't use them until you have no other choice."

The archers on the rooftop rose to find the lead vampires about sixty yards away from the front door and moving fast, but they were all good shots. Twelve of the monsters fell to the ground, writhing in pain, quickly followed by a dozen more and then a dozen more. The charge had slowed by that point as the vamps realized that the group was not quite as defenseless as they might have thought.

"Fields in, now!" Dean yelled into the walkie-talkie this time, and the fighters that had been stationed in the football and baseball fields began closing in from behind the group of vamps. Then the battle began in earnest.

"Tell them to work in pairs," Dean had told the patrol leaders on the first day of training. "Watch each other's backs. Try to evade as much as possible and use those knives or axes or whatever you've got. Losing an arm won't kill a vamp, but it will make it a lot harder for him to catch you." And they did the best they could, that group of refugees turned fighters. When the enemy broke and ran, there were less than twenty vamps capable of fleeing. The remainder were either already dead or lying on the ground incapacitated by dead man's blood.

"Kill 'em all! Kill 'em all!" Patrol leaders and others could be heard hollering all around. The dead man's blood didn't last forever, and the Winchesters had warned them all about what happened when people dropped their guards too soon. They began moving methodically amongst the fallen, decapitating vamps whenever they found one that still had its head.

Dean brought his machete down swiftly on the exposed neck of a vampire who snarled up at him, a syringe still stuck in its chest. When the vamp was beheaded, Dean straightened, dragging his forearm across his face to wipe off some of the accumulated gore. He glanced over to Sam and then pointed just beyond his brother to where one of the monsters had managed to rise to its knees. Sam brought his machete around in a quick slice, and the vampire's head bounced away across the grass.

"What do you think?" Sam asked as he walked over to his brother. Dean did a quick scan of the field.

"Probably lost about sixty," Dean replied. "Honestly, they did a lot better than I expected. We probably ought to…" He stopped speaking abruptly as Sam held his hand up and tilted his head towards the school. They were standing near the left-front corner of the building now, both of their ears ringing from the screeching music and the sounds of battle, but Sam was sure he'd heard something.

"Yeah, I heard it, too," Dean said after a second's pause, and they both sprinted towards the front doors of the school. A distant scream coming from inside the building. One or more of the vamps had gotten past their line of defenses.

Sam and Dean paused just inside the doorway, trying to determine where the sound was coming from. They could hear it more plainly now, noise of struggling and screaming. It was coming from somewhere to the left of the cafeteria, and they ran in that direction, avoiding the bodies strewn through the hallway. They turned the corner and immediately spotted the classrooms with their doors half-ripped from the hinges.

The sounds were coming from two rooms down the left side of the hall. They ran to the nearest one and found three vamps inside. All of them were dead. The closet door had been torn open, and three young children were huddled inside with an older woman. One of the little girls was crying and screaming in a spasm of terror, but they seemed to be in no immediate danger.

"Don't move!" Dean ordered, and he and Sam hurried to the second room.

Castiel was there with two more vamps. He had managed to kill one of them, but the remaining vamp had him pinned to the wall at the front of the classroom, and Cas looked as though he had very little fight left in him. The machete he had been using was gone, and he had only his angel blade in his hand. But the vamp was overpowering him, turning the sharp blade back towards Cas as it leaned in closer to Cas' exposed neck. The vamp looked around when it heard Sam and Dean enter the room. But rather than making any move to escape, it just grinned at them.

"Dammit, Cas! I told you to stay put!" Dean said, raising his machete and advancing on them.

Before he could take more than two steps, both Winchesters were tackled from behind. Sam had glimpsed movement out of the corner of his eye and had just enough time to start to turn. The impact slammed him into the back wall of the classroom, though, and he barely managed to hold on to his weapon. Sam found himself in almost the same position as Cas, unable to free himself, just struggling to keep razor-sharp fangs away from his skin.

Dean was caught completely off guard. He was sent hurtling into the center of the room, scattering desks and chairs as he fell. He hollered with pain as his full weight came down on one leg against the corner of an upturned desk. There was a nasty, crunching sound as Dean's knee and shin made contact, and he rolled limply to the floor, the pain from his leg narrowing his vision to a small, dark tunnel. The vamp pounced, sinking its fangs eagerly into Dean's neck.

"Dean!" Cas and Sam both yelled the name, frantic with their inability to help, begging Dean to put up a fight. But Dean couldn't. He had lost his weapon, he was barely holding on to consciousness, and now he was losing blood. He was defenseless, and he would soon be dead.

Cas realized suddenly what he had to do.

"Sam!" Cas yelled, "Be ready!" The vampire holding Sam turned. The vampire assaulting Dean raised its head, its jaws dripping fresh blood. Ready for what?

Instead of fighting to hold the monster and the angel blade away any longer, Cas suddenly shifted his grip. Then he yanked both the vampire and the weapon in tightly. His eyes went wide as the angel blade pierced his chest.

A blinding, blue-white light flooded the classroom. The vamp holding Cas was vaporized immediately. Sam shielded his eyes as the vamp holding him staggered, losing its hold on Sam. Apparently, it had never seen an angel blade in use. Sam swung his machete and cleanly decapitated it. He beheaded the remaining vamp while it was still straddling Dean, blinking and disoriented, shoving it off to one side and reaching down to help his brother.

"Where's Cas?" Dean asked, his voice feeble, uncertain of what had just happened. He could see the answer in Sam's face.

Sam helped Dean to stand and then held him up as they walked to the front of the classroom. Dean could only lean weakly against the wall as Sam knelt. They both stared helplessly at the body of their friend, their brother, searching for any sign of life.

"Cas?" Sam whispered. But they both knew it was no use. Castiel was gone. His body lay lifeless, and on either side of him the floor was scorched with the skeletal outline of broken, flightless angel's wings.


	3. Blood by Blood

Chapter 3 Blood by Blood

They were still there, still holding silent vigil beside the empty vessel that had housed Castiel for so many years, when the commotion began. It started as a piercing scream from somewhere near the front entrance to the school, and it expanded within seconds to numerous panicked voices and the sound of people stampeding through the halls. Some new threat –

"I can't …" Dean spoke haltingly. His voice was hollow, empty of all emotion save a bone-deep weariness, "…I just can't…"

"I know," Sam replied. But he climbed to his feet. He held a handkerchief out to Dean to staunch the flow of blood from his neck, but Dean didn't move. After a long moment, he looked up at his brother, the grief so raw in his broken expression that Sam had to look away. If they gave in now, if they allowed themselves to fall into that chasm of grief, they would die here. Finally, Sam felt Dean take the handkerchief. They walked together into the hall, Dean leaning heavily on his brother.

Sam grabbed the first adult that rushed past them.

"What is it? What's happening?" he demanded of the wide-eyed man.

"Our fighters…our people…the ones that died…" the man stammered, "…they're rising up…the dead are here for us!" Then the man yanked his arm from Sam's grip and fell back into the rushing flow of bodies. Some people were just emerging from hiding places. Others were running and scrambling to find places to hide. Still others were just shoving headlong in a mad terror to get out of the building entirely, preferring to take their chances in the darkness.

Dean and Sam began fighting against the tide, moving to the front of the school. Someone had pushed a heavy trophy cabinet from the hall to block the front doors. The Winchesters pressed their faces against the narrow windows on either side of the doors, trying to peer into the darkness outside. They both stumbled back when hands pressed against the glass. Then a face loomed into view out of the darkness. It was the woman, the patrol leader, who had lent them the binoculars earlier. Her face was bloodless, her sightless eyes staring blankly, pressing against the windows and the door like all the other dead.

Tiny cracks began to spiderweb across the reinforced glass of the narrow windows, and the trophy cabinet creaked as it was pushed a fraction of an inch across the floor.

"We've got to get the hell out of here." Dean grabbed Sam by his jacket sleeve and tugged him away. They turned and moved towards the cafeteria, Dean limping as quickly as he could, Sam holding him up.

"Samuel! Dean! This way!" It was Rowena, standing in the doorway that led to the school offices. "This way!" They turned, following the witch, and immediately found themselves in a maze of corridors. The last hall Rowena hurried down ended in the principal's office. The Winchesters followed and quickly scanned the room. A windowless office, with only one way in or out, at the end of a narrow corridor. It was the worst possible place to be. Then they heard Rowena throw the bolt on the door.

"What the hell are you playing at?" Dean turned on her with a thunderous look on his face.

"You have to hear me out, lads," Rowena replied, standing in front of the door, her hands held up to forestall them. But Dean reached out to grab her, clearly intending to throw her aside. "Samuel! Please, please make him listen!"

"Dean, wait…" Sam was staring at Rowena, his eyes wary, but there was something about the look on her face that again gave him pause. "I think she has something."

"Yes. Yes, I do," Rowena hurried to say as Dean paused. "The proposition I spoke of earlier, Samuel. It has to be now."

"What proposition?" Dean barked the words impatiently, glaring at Rowena. "What the hell is she talking about, Sam?"

"What are you talking about, Rowena? What do you have?"

"I have a spell to stop the dead," Rowena said, giving the tiniest of smug smiles at the thunderstruck look on the Winchesters' faces. But Dean quickly recovered.

"So, after all these months, you've…what? Pulled the perfect spell out of your ass? Is that it?" he said. "And we're supposed to believe that? Just fall in line with whatever your little proposition is?" Dean turned to his brother, his look of incredulity turning to one of appalled disbelief as he saw how Sam was contemplating the witch's words. "Sam, come on, you have to know she's lying. She's playing us for something. This is crazy. You think if there was anything that could stop this that we wouldn't have found it already?"

"It's the truth," Rowena addressed her argument to a listening Sam. "I didn't just pull this spell out of my arse, as your brother so eloquently put it. I received it. I received instructions."

"Received instructions?" Sam asked. "Received them from who?"

Rowena's gaze, which had been frantically holding Sam's, pleading with him to believe her, slid to one side.

"Received instructions from who, Rowena?" Sam demanded. When the witch still did not respond, Sam crossed to her in one long stride and grabbed her none too gently by an arm. "Who did you get this spell from?"

"From Chuck!" Rowena spat out, wrenching her arm away as Sam's grip went slack. "I received the spell and the directions from Chuck."

Neither Sam nor Dean spoke. And then Sam laughed derisively.

"You expect us to believe that? You expect us to believe that the world is burning, and everything is ending, but God decided to gift you with a magic spell?" Sam turned towards Dean, his face still contorted in mirthless laughter, only to see that Dean was now the one contemplating Rowena's words.

"Dean? Are you actually listening to her?"

"Maybe…I don't know…" Dean's brow was furrowed, and he wiped at his mouth in an unconscious gesture of agitation. "You said it yourself, Sam. You said Chuck was giving us time. Maybe this is what he was giving us time for…"

"The hell…this is insane…" Sam threw his arms up in frustration. "Why would Chuck give **_her_** some magic spell?"

"Well!" Rowena spoke in a tone of indignation. "Why wouldn't he give it to me, then? Chuck and I are quite close. You recall…"

"Shut up, Rowena!" both Winchesters shouted, and the witch fell into an affronted silence.

"Look, Rowena," Dean continued. "I know there's something you're not telling us. There's something rotten about this awesome spell, isn't there? Spit it out."

Rowena opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again and stared at them silently for several seconds. Gradually, her usual mischievous expression fell away, leaving her face bare in its anguish.

"Blood sacrificed by blood," she quoted softly. "That's what the spell calls for as its main ingredient." When neither of the men seemed to comprehend what she was telling them, she continued more bluntly. "One of you must sacrifice the other."

"No…no way," Sam backed away from the witch as though she was carrying some contagion, his jaw set, his head shaking from side to side. "You're crazy…"

Dean merely slumped back against the wall, his eyes closing in defeat. To Sam's dismay, he uttered not a word of argument.

"Oh, come on…" Sam demanded incredulously as he turned towards his brother, "…seriously, man. You can't believe this. You can't be listening to…"

"How do we know you're not lying?" Dean opened his eyes and stared at Rowena, ignoring Sam.

In response, Rowena lifted her arms then brought them slowly down in front of her, her palms facing inwards. A purple glow emanated from her hands as she passed them over the entirety of her body, and the glow seemed to shine through her clothing and her skin, illuminating the bones within.

"Did you see? No magic sachets, no resurrection seals, nothing to save me should my life be forfeited."

"And?" Dean asked, watching her closely.

"And I'm not lying about this. I'm not playing any games," Rowena said. "Another one of the ingredients for this spell is the lifeblood of the witch. My life. To be given for this spell to work. Chuck's directions were very clear. I must die for this spell. And one of you must die as well."


	4. Good Night

Chapter 4 Good Night

"Hell no!" Sam grabbed the witch by both arms and shoved her away from the office door, sending her stumbling against Dean. Then he threw the deadbolt and flung the door open. He had only just gone through the door and turned down the hall, Dean setting Rowena on firm footing before he limped after his brother, when Sam ducked back into the room and slammed the door shut. He threw the deadbolt then turned with a sick look on his face.

"They're in the hall, aren't they?" Dean asked.

"There's no way we're going out that door," was all Sam replied. "We'll have to find some other way." He began trying to shove the nearest set of file cabinets away from the wall, his efforts frenzied. But the cabinets were filled with out of date textbooks and reams of paper, and they refused to budge across the concrete floor. "Come on!" he yelled over his shoulder, "Help me move these, maybe there's an air duct covered up somewhere…"

"Sam," Dean spoke almost gently, "I don't think there is another way this time."

Sam turned to see his brother and Rowena just standing there, making no effort to assist him in his efforts, and his manic energy evaporated under their stoic expressions. He slumped against the recalcitrant cabinet and then slid down to the floor, his face buried in his hands.

"We've done everything we can," Dean continued. "We fought it for so long, and you know we should have already died twenty times over…"

"I know what you want!" Sam's voice was a mixture of grief and rage as he raised his head to glare accusingly at Dean. Tears were streaming down his face. "You want to be the one to die! You've just been looking for an excuse, and you finally got one!" Dean blinked in shock at the vehemence in Sam's voice, tears welling in his own eyes at the pain on his brother's face. "Well, I won't do it. I won't be the one to kill you, Dean."

There was silence for several seconds, and then the office door rattled, the doorknob jostling as someone attempted to open it from outside. Hands began to press and beat against the door. Sam hung his head once more, a despairing moan sounding from deep in his chest. Startled, Rowena moved quickly to the other side of the room.

"Get everything ready, Rowena," Dean ordered, and the witch obediently pulled her bag out from under the desk where she had stashed it. She began setting out spell ingredients. Dean moved over to where Sam was sitting and lowered himself slowly to the floor next to him.

"You're not wrong," Dean said simply. "I am ready to die. Hell, I've been ready. But that's not the only reason I want to do this, Sam, it's not even the biggest reason." The door rattled loudly, and a clatter sounded from where Rowena was working. Both men looked in the witch's direction, and she gave them a faltering smile.

"No worry, dearies," she said, waving off their concerned looks, "everything will be ready in a moment. Go back to your knitting…"

"Then why, Dean?" Sam spoke, his voice weary, defeated, "why would you ask me to do this?"

"Because I want it to be true," Dean responded slowly as though he were hearing his own thoughts for the first time as he spoke. "I want it to be true that God is helping us. I want it to be true that we're not just abandoned here..."

"You call this helping?" Sam asked, his former rage flaring again. "This stupid mind game? This sacrificing of…?"

"Yeah, I do call it helping, Sam," Dean interrupted. "If it works, if it really gives the world another chance, then I do call it helping. It's over, man. All three of us are about to die. The way I see it, we can just lay down now, or…we can make this one last effort. What's the worst that can happen? We all die anyway?"

"No," Sam said, "no, that's not the worst that can happen, Dean. The worst that can happen is me left here by myself with blood on my hands. Me having to live knowing I was the one who sent you to the Empty."

Dean knew it was the truth, and he would have given anything to not have to ask it of Sam. But there was no choice. One of them had to sacrifice the other.

"You have to do it, Sammy," Dean said, his voice choking. "You have to. You know I can't…I never could."

"I know. Jerk"

"Bitch."

"The spell mixture is ready, boys," Rowena's voice broke into their discussion. "I need your assistance to move this desk. I shall draw the seal on the floor."

Sam rose without a word and then helped Dean to his feet. They lifted the desk out of the way, then Rowena bent to draw the seal for her spellwork. For several minutes she worked with intense concentration, the only sound the continued rattling and jarring of the door. When she rose, her work completed, she found Sam staring at her intently.

"Why are you doing this, Rowena? Since when do you make a sacrifice like this?" Sam's voice was not unkind, his tone no longer accusatory. He, and Dean, as Rowena could see from the way Dean's head snapped up at Sam's question, were simply bemused by her actions. Truthfully, she wasn't entirely certain herself.

"I suppose I'm hoping that even someone like myself can find some deliverance, some peace, some…"

"Redemption?" Dean interjected.

"Aye, some redemption. Perhaps it's just foolishness," Rowena turned her head away, clearing her throat before she continued in a stronger voice, "but then again, perhaps it's not. I'm weary, lads. I'm weary, and I want to be done."

An ominous creaking suddenly sounded from the door and three heads turned quickly in that direction. A crack was growing down the center of the wood, and a bloodless fist crashed through the small window set high in the door. More hands shoved through the broken glass and began tugging at the frame.

"I believe the time for discussion is over, boys."

Rowena hurried to lift the cauldron where she had mixed the spell ingredients and set it in the center of the seal she had drawn, then she lit the candles that were set at the four corners of the seal. As the Winchesters watched, unsure how to help, Rowena pulled an ornate, velvet pouch from within her bag and untied the ribbon that was wrapped around it. She rolled the pouch out and selected a short dagger from one of its pockets, turning and presenting the vicious little weapon to Sam.

Sam took the dagger as though it were a snake that might strike, tears once again coursing over his cheeks. But Rowena was right, the time for discussion was over. This wasted effort, this last-ditch attempt was all they had left. His best hope was that it would fail, and it would all be over.

"There, Dean," Rowena pointed to the opposite side of the seal from where she was now kneeling. Dean lowered himself painfully to one knee, his other leg held awkwardly out to one side. They looked to the witch for further instruction. "I will begin the incantation, and then my blood will be spilled into the bowl. After that Samuel, you need only speak the final words and add the final blood sacrifice. When Dean is gone, the spell will be complete. Your final words will be this: 'sanguis sanguinem meum', blood of my blood. Do you understand?" Sam nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Rowena sprinkled the final ingredient into the bowl and then quickly whispered a long string of words in an unrecognizable tongue. As she finished, a bright blue flame flared up from the bowl and then died away.

"I'm ready," she said. She looked meaningfully at Sam, but he did not move. A loud screeching noise sounded from the door as the many hands managed to wrench the small window frame from the wood. The door would be broken through any minute.

Sam dropped to one knee next to Rowena.

"Rowena, I'm sorry…"

"Och, make it quick now, Samuel. With my sharp, wee blade there, it won't hurt in the least." Rowena started to bend over the bowl, but then she straightened suddenly, her gaze flying up to meet Sam's. Her eyes were dry. Only the deep red flush of her cheeks and throat revealed her inner turmoil. She rose to stand, only a little taller than Sam as he knelt beside her. Reaching down, she grasped his face between her hands, and then she kissed him. A warm, deep kiss, a kiss of longing and regret. A kiss that went on long enough for Dean to clear his throat in an awkward manner. When she broke away from the kiss, Rowena held Sam's face for just a little longer, brushing his tears away with her thumbs. "Samuel, I don't mind at all that it's you. Don't waste my death. Quickly now."

And when she had again dropped to her knees, Sam cradled her with one arm as he drew the blade swiftly across her throat. She was right, the dagger was so sharp that it had required only the slightest pressure to make the fatal cut. One small gurgling breath was the only sound that she made before she went completely limp.

The door cracked and splintered. The dead were very nearly in.

"Come on, just a little more," Dean said. He reached across the drawn seal and lifted the bowl to set it in front of himself as Sam gently lowered Rowena's body to the floor. Sam stood and crossed the seal to stand beside his brother. He dropped down to one knee next to him.

"Dean, please…"

"Don't worry about me, alright? The Empty is going to be nothing more than a long night's sleep. Just keep fighting the good fight, okay?" But Sam still made no move towards completing his task. "Come on, man. I know you can do this. You always were the strong one."

Dean's voice was pleading as he turned back to look at Sam. Sam looked broken, and it was gutting Dean to urge him on. But it had to be done.

"Finish it, Sam. Send me to that long sleep."

Sam swallowed hard. "Sanguis sanguinem meum," he said in a low, anguished voice.

"That's my boy," Dean managed a reassuring smile and patted his brother's face with rough affection. "Good night, Sammy." He turned around and leaned over the bowl, and Sam brought the blade across his throat.

The door groaned and then splintered and broke. The dead poured into the room. Sam, still kneeling on the ground, holding his brother's lifeless body in his arms, just closed his eyes and hung his head and waited. _It's over. It's finally over._

But nothing happened. Sam opened his eyes and raised his tear-stained face. Like gray mist blown away by the breeze, the dead were vanishing right before his eyes. He watched, stunned, as the room emptied, the dead wafted away as if they had never existed at all. And then the weight in his arms suddenly disappeared.

"No…please no, Dean…" Sam cried. But his brother's body was gone. A gray mist that hung for a moment in mid-air and then faded away, leaving Sam utterly alone.


	5. The Door

Chapter 5 The Door

Dean opened his eyes and clambered to his feet. He turned quickly in a circle, instinctively crouching into a defensive position, looking around frantically for the threat that had awakened him. But there was nothing. Nothing for as far as he could see. Blackness and space and never-ending nothingness stretching to eternity in all directions. Emptiness forever and beyond. _Son of a bitch…_

This was not the way it was supposed to happen. He had accepted his fate – no afterlife, no heaven or hell, no anything. Just the Empty. And he had accepted that. Like he told Sam, a very, very long night, an eternal sleep. But he was not asleep. He was awake, and he was standing there in the vast, blank night, in a darkness that was at once so deep that it could almost be felt, like a smothering presence all around him, and yet so clear and open that he could see the enormity of his solitude stretching out forever. Dean felt a sick twisting in the pit of his stomach. Was this God's final joke, then? Conscious abandonment and isolation for all eternity? His heart, which had been racing since the moment he awakened, stuttered in his chest.

"'Sup, Dean?"

Dean whirled. Standing there, that enigmatic smile as always on her lips, was Billie – Death herself. He had never been so relieved to see anyone or anything.

"Billie! What the hell? Where am I?" Dean demanded, the horror and relief evident in his voice although he tried to cover them with anger. The corners of Billie's lips curled up just a tiny bit more.

"Oh, you're in the Empty, Big D. Just like I promised. Are you unhappy to see me? Maybe I should just go." The flash of dead terror on Dean's face actually made Billie regret her words. That had been too far, even for the dark banter that she and the elder Winchester had enjoyed over the years. "I'm not leaving you, Dean, but we have to get moving. We've got work to do."

Unsure for the moment of his ability to speak without breaking down, Dean fell silently into step beside Billie as she strode off. She seemed to have some destination in mind, although Dean was unable to see any difference between the solid blackness they were walking through now and the solid blackness they had been walking through for the past several minutes. Gradually, his heart rate returned to normal, and as the sound of blood pounding through his veins receded, he was able to hear the silence that engulfed them. The only noise was their footsteps, a single sharp sound for each step, sterile and cold and unearthly. _You ain't in Kansas anymore –_

It was when Dean realized that his reaction to this thought had been to move almost imperceptibly closer to Billie that he decided he had to get a grip. _Seriously? Did you really just move closer to DEATH because this place is freaking you out?_

"What's going on, Billie? What sort of work do we have to do?"

"Good, you're speaking," Billie glanced over at Dean with that smile on her face again. "Thought I'd lost you there for a minute, Winchester."

Dean scowled. At least this was familiar ground. Billie had answers, but she never gave them up without a fight.

"Where are we going?"

"I guess this will do," Billie stopped abruptly. "I've just been walking until you got your feet back under you, Dean. I'm hospitable that way."

Dean's jaw clenched, and he was just about to inform Billie where she could shove her hospitality, when she raised the scythe that she held in her right hand and reached out in front of her. To Dean's amazement, she seemed to be carving into the emptiness in front of them, a sliver of light growing through the darkness until she had carved the shape of a doorway.

"Dean!"

A figure stepped out from the darkness of the door shape, and Dean blinked in confusion. He recognized the figure, but he had never expected to see it again. And certainly not with such a look of pure joy on the face.

"Jack?"

"Yeah, it's me. I didn't…" Jack was unable to finish his statement. Dean had stepped forward and pulled him into a strangling hug and Jack hugged him back happily. When they broke away, Dean just stared, the emotions of the last few hours overwhelming him.

"I didn't think I'd ever…" Dean finally managed to say, clearing his throat and wiping tears from his face, "I didn't think I'd ever see you again, kid. And I sure didn't think you'd want to see me. I'm sorry…"

"Don't." Jack's voice was rough with emotion. "You don't have to be sorry, Dean. I'm the one who should be sorry."

"How 'bout we all be real sorry inside, okay?" Billie gestured to the makeshift door and Dean found himself following her and Jack, stepping into the outlined darkness and coming out the other side in…

"Son of a bitch. Is this the bunker?" Dean stared around in amazement. Wherever they were, it looked for all the world as if they had just stepped through the bunker's front door. His gaze swept lovingly down to take in the situation room, the study just visible beyond. It had been months since he had been inside the bunker. He and Sam hadn't…Dean stopped his thoughts abruptly. He couldn't think of Sam. Not yet. "Are we in the bunker?"

"No," Billie replied, "we're still in the Empty. We're just in a certain VIP-only area. Very exclusive."

"Billie fixed it like this for us. Most everyone was familiar with the location." At the sound of the voice, Dean's gaze quickly dropped to the bottom of the steps. Cas was standing there looking up at them.

"Cas, buddy," Dean said with a happy laugh, "long time no see."

"It's not been very long at all, Dean. At least, I don't believe it has. Time does work differently…" Cas was saying, but Dean made it down the steps and embraced him in a fierce hug. After he released Cas, Dean looked around in utter delight.

"So, anybody else here at this party?" he asked.

"It's not really a party, Dean. We could have had a party, I suppose, but we didn't know exactly when you'd be getting here," Jack explained.

"It's okay, kid. This is a hell of a lot better than what I expected. I just wondered if I needed to brace up for anyone else."

"You mean anyone worthwhile, don't you, Dean? Anyone worth getting truly ecstatic about?" Crowley sauntered in from the study, dressed in a luxurious crimson smoking jacket, holding a glass of what appeared to be very fine Scotch. "Lucky for you, pet, there is someone here just like that."

"Crowley. I'll be damned. I didn't expect to have to see your worthless ass ever again."

"Well, that's two of us disappointed then, isn't it?"

"If you've all finished your sappy reunions, we do need to discuss our next steps," Billie interrupted them. "There's one more person you need to see, Dean." She crossed to the study and waved someone in to join them. A young man appeared at the top of the short flight of steps which led into the study. Dean did not recognize him at all.

"Who are you?" Dean asked, his voice instantly distrustful.

"We've met before," the young man replied. "But it was a long time ago, over ten years, and you probably don't remember. I'm Jesse."

"Jesse?" Dean's face, clouded with confusion, suddenly cleared. "Jesse Turner? The little antichrist kid?"

"Uh, yeah, the little antichrist kid," the young man responded looking embarrassed.

"Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean…it just sort of popped in my head, and I just…" Dean fumbled badly as he tried to take back his unfortunate wording.

"Smooth as always, Dean…" Crowley said with a sardonic grin, and Dean turned to glare at him.

"Please," Billie intoned, "can we try to stay on track? Yes, Dean, Jesse is both human and demon. That's why it's crucial that he be here."

"Crucial why?" Dean asked.

"Crucial because he's a link in our chain," Billie explained. "You probably haven't noticed, but standing right here before you is the full spectrum of creation. Angel, angel/human, human, human/demon, and demon. Not only that, but everyone also came to be here in a particular way. Everyone sacrificed himself."

Dean looked around. Everyone else seemed to understand exactly what Billie was talking about. Whatever was going on, he was apparently the only one who didn't know the plan.

"Why does that matter? Crucial for what? What the hell are we doing?"

"We're destroying the bloody Empty," Crowley responded, lifting his glass in salute. "That's what the hell we're doing."


	6. Afterwards

Chapter 6 Afterwards

The drive was slow. It was amazing how much roadways could deteriorate with only a few weeks of disuse and neglect. Abandoned vehicles littered the sides of the road, sometimes even the traffic lanes themselves. But he was in no real hurry, just rolling down the backroads like they had always done. A lot slower than Dean would have ever driven, of course, but allowances had to be made. For now, it was enough to drive Baby and play the AC/DC cassette as loud as he could_…hey Sammy, did you know you could buy old tapes off the internet? I just replaced my broken "Hell's Bells"! Best use ever for the internet. Scratch that, second best use…_

He switched over to the radio and fiddled with the dial, trying to find a station. Mostly, he found static, but occasionally he would pick up a voice. When he finally found a station coming in clear, he just pulled to a stop, listening for any news. It wasn't like he was going to be in anybody's way.

**…to have simply vanished. David is on the scene now coming to us from a military-controlled zone. What can you tell us, David?**

**Thanks, Evan. I'm speaking with Colonel James Parker here. Colonel Parker, what can you tell us about the dead zone here in Denver?**

**David, we are currently maintaining patrol of the perimeter. I repeat, we have not authorized entry to the area. However, we are not currently seeing any activity, and we do have reconnaissance squads scouting the area.**

**Colonel, do you believe the reports that the dead have disappeared?**

**David, again let me stress that we are not currently allowing access to the affected area. But initial reports do seem to indicate that no dead are being detected. We will continue patrols until such…**

He turned off the radio and shifted the Impala back into drive, rolling slowly down the road again. It was the same sort of reporting he had been hearing throughout the afternoon. Was it possible? Had they really defeated the plague set to destroy the earth? Had the spell actually worked? He continued driving in silence until his thoughts became too intrusive. Then he changed cassettes and began blasting Zeppelin. Until "Ramble On" started_…'cause it's a freakin' classic, that's why Sammy! I tried so hard to raise you right, man, and this is the thanks I get. Tell him, Cas, tell him this is awesome…Dean, I don't understand the references to both the mythological location of Mordor and to an unhappy romantic breakup…_

Back to radio, searching for a station again. The endless loop of his chaotic mind. He couldn't stop the constant thoughts of what he had lost, but he couldn't bear to let the thoughts get too close either. And a little voice in the back of his head kept promising – just make it through tonight. Find out if the dead are really, truly gone. Then make it to the bunker. Then you can break. You can shatter then.

As the time for check-in drew near, he stopped at the top of a small rise and unloaded gear, setting up in the middle of the road. He was ready early but waited patiently until 9:00 sharp.

"Hunter radio. This is Sam Winchester." He coughed, clearing his throat, realizing at that moment that he had not spoken a word in hours. "I'm in Lewellen, Nebraska, coordinates 41.3 – 102.1, heading back into ground zero. The dead disappeared where we were, and I'm hoping they did everywhere. Dean didn't make it."

His voice remained steady, even though speaking the words for the first time aloud felt like an icy dagger to his chest. He paused for the traditional moment of remembrance, pretending not to hear the shocked murmurs on the airwaves.

"Dean, thanks for your work. Struck from the roster."

He couldn't tell them. Not yet. He wanted the world to know what his brother had sacrificed, how his sacrifice had saved humanity. But, for just a little longer, he wanted to hold the knowledge to himself. Once it was out, once everyone knew, it would be the story of a hero. A story of valor and triumph and celebration. It would no longer be the story of one broken, courageous man. One man who had struggled and fought his entire life. Who had drank too much and drove too fast. Who had listened endlessly to the same music, and argued constantly, and been a general pain in the ass. Who had fiercely loved his makeshift family and loved his family more than his own life. And, just for right now, he needed it to be that story – the story of his brother.

The hunter roll call carried on. A few of the hunters had been in such dire straits that they too had actually seen the dead vanish with their own eyes. Most had just heard the rumors and then proceeded to investigate, many of them sneaking past military lines to continue with what they considered to be their duty. The bottom line was that no hunter had encountered any sign of the dead for that entire day. And what was more, many had seen reports of the same thing happening around the world.

Werewolf packs had slunk away into the night, as had nests of vampires and ghouls and monsters of every sort. No one had seen a demon all day. The story seemed to be that supernatural activity everywhere had dropped to nearly zero. Every hunter's report was tinged with disbelief, but they all followed the same pattern. The world – which had been spinning out of control, careening to a violent and bloody end – had fallen gentle back onto its axis, into its proper orbit.

When the last hunter had reported in, he wrapped up the session with the words that Dean had always used.

"Stay safe out there. Everyone be back here tomorrow."

He broke down the equipment and packed it away. He considered driving on through the night but realized that he hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours. So instead, he pulled Baby over onto the shoulder of the highway and stretched out on the front seat, the silence around him profound. His exhaustion was a blessing. Sleep came almost instantly_…good night, Bitch..._

He awoke as the first rays of sunlight were creeping over the horizon. The driving was even more difficult than it had been yesterday. Here, approaching ground zero, vehicles were strewn like toys across the road, abandoned or crashed or upended in ditches. What should have been a four-hour drive lasted well into the afternoon. He stopped only once to fill up the Impala at an abandoned gas station.

As he had yesterday, he switched between playing Dean's cassette tapes, trying to pick up radio stations, and driving in silence. The radio reports were universally ecstatic. There was no longer any hesitation in reporting that the dead had disappeared. Officials were declaring celebrations. Assuring swift removal of barriers and military guards. Assuring return to homes.

You're almost there, the voice in his head promised. You can make it.

He wasn't sure he believed the voice anymore. The memories, the loss, were crowding in now. Threatening to overwhelm him, to drown him.

It was dusk as he drove down the gravel road, parking Baby in her familiar spot. He patted the steering wheel as he got out, just like he had seen Dean do countless times. He opened the door to the bunker and stepped inside. As he did so, a wave of relief and sorrow drove him to his knees. He stayed there for several moments, his head hung, his shoulders hunched as though protecting him from some physical attack, his breathe catching in his chest.

When he was finally able to stand, he walked slowly down the steps into the situation room. Everything was exactly as it had been left, powered and running by whatever mysterious force had always powered the bunker. He climbed the short flight of steps leading to the study, his gaze lovingly taking in the shelves of books, the antique displays. He had never had a home to miss before. The initials carved in the table suddenly caught his attention, and he turned away quickly.

"Sam."

Sam jerked back around. There, in a chair at the far end of the room, sat Chuck.


	7. Empty Inside

Chapter 7 Empty Inside

Dean downed the Scotch in one gulp, causing Crowley to wince at such an indignity foisted upon a rare and precious creation, then set the glass down and took a very long, deep breath before asking his question.

"So, I get that we're trying to kill the Empty, but why exactly are we doing that? Aren't we sort of in the Empty?"

"Yup," Billie responded in her typical helpful and information-rich manner, but then she continued. "But if we want to stop the dead, then we've got to stop the Empty."

"What do you mean stop the dead? Aren't they already stopped?" Dean was on his feet, panic surging through his body. "Me dying was supposed to stop it! Are you telling me we've been jacking around here while Sam was left…?"

"Calm down, Winchester." Billie held up her hand to halt Dean, raising an imperious eyebrow. "Time works a little different between here and there. Back where Sam is, it's been about one second since your heart beat for the last time. Your brother doesn't even realize you're dead yet."

Dean slowly sat back down, his face paling at the thought of Sam's grief yet to come.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Cas murmured. "I'm sorry it had to be this way."

"Yes, well none of us is exactly pleased about being here," Crowley said, "but now that Squirrel has joined us, perhaps we can be getting on with business."

Billie ignored the hateful looks that Cas and Jack both aimed at Crowley and continued with her explanation.

As soon as Jack was killed, Billie found herself in the Empty with him – because once he was there, there was no chance that he was going to go unnoticed. Billie had known what was coming, the plan, and the pieces that would have to be in place for the plan to work. And she had known that it would be her job to hide and shield the participants until everything was ready. The problem was, taking Billie – Death – out of the natural world had resulted in devastating consequences.

"So, you're saying that's why the dead started rising? Because you weren't there to keep control?" Dean asked.

"It's a big part of why," Billie agreed. "Although it's actually taken some time for things to begin really deteriorating."

"Not in the world I was seeing, sister," Dean argued. "It all fell apart when Chuck snapped his fingers, and it just got suckier by the minute after that."

"Do you know how hard it's been to keep any semblance of natural order, Winchester? Do you know what would have happened if I had just given up and let all of the dead rise at once?"

Billie leveled her gaze at Dean, her tone dangerously calm, and Dean had a sudden sensation of having walked into quicksand. How many times did you have to die before you could stop being afraid of Death? He didn't offer any more commentary.

Jesse had been the next to join them in the Empty. And it was then that Billie had awakened Crowley and included him in the planning.

"Plucked me from my sweet, dreamless sleep. And here I am with you lot. Again," Crowley grumbled, looking around at the faux bunker as though it were vermin infested. No one paid him any attention.

"Now you're all here," Billie said, "and you can finally do what you have to do."

"What exactly do we have to do?" Jesse asked.

"You have to let the Empty find you and consume you."

"How's that, now?" Dean said, his voice incredulous.

"You have to let the Empty find you and consume you," Billie repeated slowly, enunciating as though Dean were a slow child who hadn't been paying attention the first time. "All of you. You will be bound together, a new creation encompassing the totality of created being. And once you're consumed, you detonate the bomb."

Billie reached inside her long, black leather coat and pulled something from an inside pocket. It was the Equalizer – the gun that Chuck had used to kill Jack. The gun that Sam had tried to use to kill Chuck. She laid it on the table. Everyone in the room just stared at it for a moment. Finally, Cas spoke.

"I assume by 'detonate the bomb' you mean that one of us will have to be shot. And that will precipitate a chain reaction which should destroy the Empty from the inside?"

Billie nodded slowly.

"Dean, you can shoot me," Cas said. He pushed the gun towards Dean.

"I'll take it," Dean said, smiling to himself at Cas' matter-of-fact tone. Dean picked up the gun and tucked it into his waistband, eyeing Crowley meaningfully. "I probably won't use it on you, though, Cas."

"Still denying our latent affection, are we?" Crowley smiled. "Use it on me then, pet. What does it matter? We're all for the same fate now. Isn't that right, Billie?"

"Yep."

"And what is that fate, exactly?" Jack asked, his brow furrowed with concern. "What happens after the Empty is destroyed? What happens to us?"

"That I don't know, kid," Billie replied, not unkindly. "I only see the path laid out for you; I can't see what's at the end of the path. Is everyone ready?"

Dean stood up from the table. Cas and Jack quickly followed. Jesse had been leaning against one of the bookcases, and he moved to stand next to them. Crowley, very slowly and deliberately, took a final sip of Scotch, sucking in a breath between his teeth to savor the last drop of the rich, complex flavors, and placed the cut crystal tumbler carefully on the table. Then he rose and joined the others.

"Hold one hand out, palm up," Billie instructed.

They all complied, their hands hovering in a semicircle over the end of the long table where they stood. Billie touched each of them in turn, her fingers brushing down each forearm, caressing each wrist, and gliding off the fingertips. The lightest of touches, but it created a growing warmth. And the warmth quickly became a glow emanating from the skin that she had grazed. A golden pulse of light concentrated at each of their wrist, and then it broke free of their skin. There was no injury, no pain. Just silken strands of golden light rising upward from their wrists.

As they watched in amazement, the strands of light began to grow, to dip and sway, twisting and tangling, looping gracefully around their wrists and around each of the other wrists. Until a web of golden threads connected them all. Then the light faded, leaving behind the faintest touch. They drew their hands back, each of them feeling a small tug of connection.

"Nice," Jack said with a happy smile, and Dean and Cas both looked away, the reminder of Jack's innocent nature too much for them to bear at that moment.

"I'm leaving you now," Billie said, the faintest hint of sorrow evident in her voice. Dean turned to her and saw to his amazement that her eyes were wet with tears. He had never seen Billie cry. "Don't mess this up, Big D. We're all counting on you." And then she was gone.

The table and chairs, the bookcases and walls and ceiling, the entire bunker façade, began to shimmer. Within seconds it had all melted away like fog, and they found themselves standing in the barren, endless void once again. Instinctively, they drew closer to each other, circling, alert for whatever might happen.

"Stay tight," Dean said in a low voice. "We don't know what this thing might look like, or what it might do." He wondered if they would have to go in search of the Empty. Did it know that they were after it? Did it know that…?

The wave slammed into them with no warning. Crashing, roiling, sending them tumbling head over heels. The blackness tossed them around helplessly, engulfing them in an endless ocean, tidal wave after tidal wave beating them down and sweeping them along only to beat them down once more.

Dean couldn't breathe, he couldn't comprehend what was happening. His thoughts were thrashing along with his body. He forced his eyes to open, but he couldn't see any of the others. He couldn't see anything. There was nothing but the black void and blindness and confusion. He squeezed his eyes shut again, a sick feeling gripping him. Then he felt it, that faint tug at his wrist. They were still connected.

As soon as he realized that the connection was unbroken, another jolt of terror seized him, worse even than the horror of the endless drowning. The gun! Did he still have the gun? His arms…he couldn't even tell where they were, if they were still attached to his body. He forced his arms in, pulling them to his chest until one hand could grasp the other and he had some sense of them once again. Fighting against the churning tide, he brought his right hand around to his back, searching for the gun at his waist. He found it. He grasped the handle.

Relief flooded over his body, but there was no time. Bright pops of light were beginning to burst against the inside of his eyelids, and he knew that he was almost gone. The Empty would soon have consumed him completely.

With his last ounce of strength, Dean pulled his arm back around. He couldn't even feel his hand holding the gun now; he was working entirely on blind faith. He shoved the barrel of the pistol under his chin and pulled the trigger.

The darkness overwhelmed him. A sound was the last thing he knew. A cacophony of millions of beating wings.


	8. Begin Again

Chapter 8 Begin Again

Chuck stood and walked towards Sam. The expression on Chuck's face was exultant, as though he were barely containing some overwhelming joy. A warm smile spread across his face.

But Sam didn't see any of that. All he saw was the reason his brother wasn't there with him, would never be with him again.

"Why?" Sam was almost unable to choke out the word. His voice was hoarse, and it shook with barely restrained grief and rage and pain. But it grew stronger as he continued. He was screaming by the time he finished. "Why are you here? To rub it in my face? Isn't it enough that Dean's in the Empty? Isn't it enough that I'll never see him again? What else do you want? There's nothing else you can take from me!"

Chuck stood silent before the furious onslaught. He didn't try to stop the tirade. He didn't attack in return. Instead, he looked at Sam with the most profound understanding and gentleness.

Sam's face crumpled in confusion. He had expected, even hoped, that Chuck would lash back at him. The complete lack of response left Sam adrift, assaulted and overwhelmed by chaotic emotions with nowhere to vent them. His heart was racing. His breathing came short and quick, and each breath caught and shuddered in his chest. Chuck walked slowly to the table nearest Sam and pushed the end chair out, turning it – a clear invitation for Sam to have a seat, have a seat before you collapse.

Sam sat, his head falling forward, eyes closed. Chuck took a seat also, watching him closely. Sam's hand found where he and Dean had carved their initials in the table. His fingers began to trace the letter 'D', over and over.

"You're angry, Sam." Chuck's voice was soft. "But I want you to understand what you did. What you and Dean did."

"We stopped the dead," Sam said without looking up, his voice lifeless. "We followed the directions you gave Rowena and stopped the dead."

"Oh, you did so much more than that," Chuck responded. "You did it all. You did everything." Sam could hear it in his voice now, that undercurrent of deep joy. He looked up questioningly.

"Did what? What did we do?"

"You destroyed the Empty, Sam. You and Dean…and a few friends," Chuck smiled gleefully. "You put everything back in order."

Sam just stared at him, uncomprehending.

"Uh...maybe I should explain a little more. See, the Empty was never supposed to have existed."

Chuck continued, going back to before the creation of the earth. Back when only he and the Darkness, Amara, had existed. Back when Chuck had first created, because it was his very nature to create. And Amara had destroyed, the opposite of creation. Or so they thought. All she really did was tear apart, wreck, upend. But there was no true destruction. Creation – energy, life, light – could not be destroyed. Instead, it was broken and twisted, mauled and discarded, congealing into a new thing, a hideous parody of creation – the Empty. The more Chuck created; the more Amara broke apart. The more Amara broke apart; the more the Empty grew. And once it grew large enough, it made its presence known and began to wreak havoc.

"Heaven was never supposed to be like it was. The bureaucracy, the warehousing people away in little memory rooms. All of that was a reaction to the Empty – a protective, albeit misguided, reaction," Chuck said. "But it wasn't enough. The Empty kept coming, kept growing. It grew strong enough to take angels that had been struck down. It grew…"

"You mean like when angels died and went to the Empty? That wasn't meant to happen?" Sam interrupted, brow furrowed, trying to make some sense of Chuck's words.

"No, never," Chuck answered emphatically. "Not angels, not demons, certainly not humans. No one and nothing should have ever been in the Empty. But everything was messed up. And everything needed to be put right. That's where you and Dean came in."

He explained to Sam what had happened after Dean's death. Who had been there. How the Empty had been destroyed.

"Cas? And Jack?" Sam interrupted, a tremulous smile lightening his countenance for the first time in days, months. "And Crowley? Really?"

"And Crowley," Chuck responded, grinning. "They all had so much more power than the Empty understood," he continued, his face beaming with a father's pride. "Every one of them allowed themselves to be sacrificed. That made them strong. And Dean had the power of your sacrifice as well."

"So, it's really over? The dead here on earth, they're really gone?"

"Yes. The souls are all back where they belong," Chuck answered. "You have to understand what was happening, Sam. Heaven was falling, there were no angels left to maintain it. And Death had to be in the Empty, hiding the pieces of the weapon. Hell and Purgatory were broken, leeching demons and monsters out into the world. In every sense, it was the end. But destroying the Empty set things right."

Sam shoved his chair back suddenly, rising, moving to stand next to the bookcase. His face clouded as he wrestled with his agitated thoughts.

"The people," he finally said. "All the people who died, or watched their families die. We didn't save them. How is that right? How is…"

"Which people?" Chuck interrupted, his gaze intent upon Sam. "You mean Jayni in Tennessee? She became one of the dead. Or maybe you're talking about Mbuvi in Kenya. He lost his wife and child to a wraith. Or are you talking about Airi in Japan? She lost her parents to the dead. Are those the people you're talking about? Do you want me to keep listing names, Sam? Do you want me to list them all?"

"I just meant…" Sam started to say.

"Do not make the mistake of believing that you care more about my children than I do."

Chuck's voice was not raised, had not changed at all in tone, but Sam felt a sudden frisson of fear mixed with shame. He began to pace along the length of the study, avoiding eye contact. Silence filled the room. After a moment, Sam returned to his seat. After a longer moment, he spoke again.

"Why couldn't you just tell us what had to be done?" Sam asked.

"Oh Sam, sometimes I forget that you were pre-law…" Chuck said with a hint of a smile. "What if you had known everything? Not just this final part. I mean your whole lives. The consequences of every decision you and Dean made. The times you made the wrong choices. The suffering you brought on yourselves, and on others. And the times you did the right things and still suffered. Because it took all of that, you know. Nothing was wasted. Nothing you, or Dean, or your family and friends did was wasted. Every piece of it led you here. But would you have made the same choices if you had seen everything that would happen?"

Silence again.

"Come with me," Chuck said. "Let me show you something."

Chuck stood from the table and Sam stood also. And suddenly they were no longer in the bunker. Instead they were in a place the likes of which Sam had never even imagined.

It was colossal, stretching out forever in all directions for as far as he could see. For a moment he couldn't even take it in, it was too enormous. And it was filled with people. People everywhere, talking and smiling and laughing.

Gradually, Sam began to pick out details from the overwhelming display. Marble and gold, silver filigree and deep red lacquer, vibrant paints and embroidered fabrics, rugs and furnishings and adornments. The opulence of all the world's cultures. And in other places, towering trees or delicate flowers or waving grasses. The splendor of all the world's landscapes.

"Is this Heaven?"

"Well…sort of…" Chuck responded. "This is more…Heaven's waiting room…"

"Waiting room?" Sam whispered, stunned. "Waiting for what, exactly?"

"Some of the souls just need to rest for a while. Some of them aren't quite ready for what's next."

"What is next?"

"The next adventure, Sam. You'll find out when it's time," Chuck answered with a fond smile. "Come this way."

He led them past expanses that looked like castle interiors and ones that looked like endless waves of emerald hills. And everywhere Sam looked there were happy clusters of people.

"Can they see us?"

"No," Chuck said, "we're just observers, not really here. Look over there."

Sam turned. Before him was a scene of rich mahogany and burnished brass, leather and steel and chrome. The magnificence of a heavenly hunters' bar, filled with people. Sam staggered, a flood of emotions threatening to sweep him away.

Everyone was there. Everyone. Mom and Dad, Cas and Jack, Bobby. Jodie and Kevin and Charlie. Jo and Ash and Ellen. Eileen, happily participating in the raucous conversation. And so many, many other people that they had loved and lost.

And Dean. Dean smiling and laughing, his face open and unguarded. Happy.

Sam didn't notice the tears until he felt them rolling down his neck. He cleared his throat with a short laugh, wiping at his neck and face, self-conscious, but Chuck had looked pointedly away. For a long time Sam just continued to gaze silently at the gathering, drinking in the sight. Then a sudden thought seized him.

"Rowena…she hoped that…I mean, she did what you asked her to…"

"Yes, Rowena did redeem herself in the end," Chuck answered the unspoken question. "And Crowley did, too. I expect you'll see them both again." He didn't go into any further detail, but that was enough. Sam wasn't sure he could handle much more. One last question, though.

"Why do they keep looking over there to the right?" he asked.

"Oh, that's where the door is," Chuck said, making quote marks with his fingers around the word door. "Some people are in Heaven's waiting room because they're waiting for someone else."

"Who are they wait…?" Sam began to ask, then stopped short, his answer found in Chuck's gentle eyes. "You mean I could…" Sam faltered for the words to his next question.

"You can do whatever you want, Sam." Chuck responded. "If you want to be there with them now, you can do that. You have my blessing." He winked at Sam. "I know people; I can get you right in. But if you want to wait, then you can do that, too. The world's fixed, but it's not perfect. There's still work for you there if you want it."

Chuck smiled reassuringly at Sam.

"Remember, time works different here. You could go have a life. You could join them in sixty or seventy years. It won't feel too long to anyone here. It really is your decision." 

"Another round for everyone?" Dean stood up from the table. "Yeah? Cool, it's on me. No, no, I insist." He winked at Jo, and she rolled her eyes at him, laughing. Dean walked to the bar to order up the drinks. He heard the sound before anyone else did. The door opening.

Dean turned, and his whole face lit with a jubilant smile.

"Sammy!"


End file.
